


Living in Your Letters

by biblionerd07



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Love Letters, Sadness letters, sad Steve, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-09 18:32:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1993356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biblionerd07/pseuds/biblionerd07
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky finds one of Steve's notepads that he uses to write his lists about the future, but this one's different.  It's full of letters--to Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living in Your Letters

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, that title is from the Dashboard Confessional song. Fancier did a Chinese translation, for those more comfortable in Chinese, which can be read [here](http://www.mtslash.com/forum.php?mod=viewthread&tid=129519)

Bucky’s rooting around in a drawer, looking for some scissors, and he comes across one of Steve’s little notepads that he uses to write down his future lists. Bucky chuckles a little and pulls it out, because he gets a real kick out of Steve’s question marks and he likes comparing the things Steve’s interested in with what he’s written down for himself.

He can tell right away this is one of the first notepads Steve filled up, because the writing’s still a little shaky and Steve had admitted to Bucky that his fine motor skills weren’t quite perfect when he first woke up. His hands still stiffen up sometimes, a lingering side effect of the ice, though the doctors say it’s all in his head. Doctors have been telling Steve his problems are all in his head since day one. Bucky doesn’t much care for doctors.

_Times Square is different_ , the first line reads, and Bucky snorts at the understatement. Sure, they’d had neon signs back in their day, but it was nothing like today—no scrolling signs, not so many flashing lights or advertisements.

_You can buy any food from the whole world. Today I tried a fruit called a mango and it was from Mexico. Bananas are different and come from Ecuador._ Steve's pretty obsessed with mangoes now, actually; he’s insistently shoved them at Bucky more than once.

_Everyone sure dresses different. They all wear jeans, but they’re nothing like the Levis you wore to the docks, and dames wear them, too._ Bucky sucks in a quick breath because this isn’t just one of Steve’s lists; these are letters—to Bucky.

He has to pause for a second. Why would Steve have written letters to him? Bucky had been, for all intents and purposes, dead, a skeleton at the bottom of a mountain, covered by seventy years of wildlife. Bucky thinks of the way he’d forget, sometimes, just for a second, that his ma was gone, how he’d smirk as he pictured her mock-scolding face when he got in some scrap or another with Steve, before it would crash down on him.

Maybe Steve had written that before remembering. But now that he’s paying attention, he can tell the rest of the notes are for him, too. Every entry in the book is an unaddressed letter to him.

_We got two new states in the country now. Two more for us to visit, except we can’t drive to Hawaii and we’d have to go through Canada to get to Alaska. Can you believe that? You have to leave the country to get to another part of the country._ They’d talked, decades and decades ago, in hushed whispers in their drafty tenement in Brooklyn or in a freezing tent in Europe, about taking a car and visiting every state in the Union, picking up a piece of the whole country to send back to Bucky’s sisters.

_I bought so much ice cream. I have a deep freeze right in my kitchen, attached to my refrigerator. Everyone’s got them. You don’t even have to be rich. But I took too long to eat the ice cream and it got freezer burn without you here to finish it quick._

_Dames do_ not _like to be called dames. I still don’t know how to talk to them. Need you to help me._

_The subway costs $2.50. Can you believe that? Think how much food we could’ve bought with that, and now they’re spending it on a train ticket._

_I saw a man riding a unicycle today and when I asked if there was a circus in town he said he just likes to ride it. I laughed myself silly imagining the look on your face if you saw that, even though we both know you’d probably try it yourself._

_I blew my top at some kids today on the subway. They were fooling around, jumping in and out of the doors, and it was getting on my nerves. But I didn’t flip until they started hanging out the door before the train started moving. I can’t see people hanging off trains. It’s too much. They thought it was a joke and I know we used to do the same kind of things when we were just kids but it sure won’t be funny to me ever again._

There aren’t any more notes in the book. Bucky figures Steve must’ve gotten over his death by then, must’ve realized Bucky was never going to read the notes, anyway, so there was no need to keep writing. But as Bucky moves to slip the book back into the drawer, writing halfway through the book catches his eye and he flips open to it.

_I miss you so much I can’t breathe most days. Not sure what the point of me being here is if you’re not here, too. It’s New York but it doesn’t feel a bit like home._

Bucky’s throat feels tight and he flips through all the rest of the pages, looking for anything more, but they’re all blank. He goes back to that last, shaky entry, his heart pounding as he pictures Steve with sad eyes and a frown, all alone, looking out at a city torn between familiar and brand new without his best friend by his side.

He finds himself reluctant to stick the letters back in a drawer, sitting hidden like they hadn’t just stolen his breath. He wants to read them a few more times. He might be considering framing them, but instead he slips the little notepad into his pocket. He’d gotten a few letters from Steve while he was in basic and Steve was still safe (relatively—Steve couldn’t seem to ever be truly safe, not with his stubborn streak and his perpetual righteous indignation and ream of health problems) in Brooklyn, and a few from after he’d shipped out and Steve had _pretended_ to still be safe in Brooklyn. All those letters were gone, taken by Zola and probably burned or something, and then there had been no need for letters because Steve was there at his side until he fell from the train.

So yeah, he wants letters. He wants his old letters back, sure—the ones full of gossip on the girls Bucky had gone with before he left, the ones full of Steve blabbering for a full page about a new art project he was working on, the ones playfully calling him _soldier_ , letters Bucky had carried tucked carefully into his jacket to keep both the letters and himself safe.

But these letters are from Steve, too. They’re full of Steve’s slanted writing and flat-topped _r_ ’s that Bucky will probably be able to recognize until he dies (again). Maybe they’re not exactly for him—Steve didn’t write them knowing he’d read them, but they’re talking to him, anyway, so Bucky plans to save them. They share the same basic sentiment—in Steve’s letters before they were reunited, he’d always signed off with _miss you, Buck, wish we were together_ , and that’s basically what these mean anyway.

 

Bucky’s been stewing on the letters all day when Steve gets back from a briefing or debriefing or meeting or something. He sets his shield in the hall and his shoulders slump in that way that means it was a long day of Tony snarking and Fury posturing.

“Hey,” he greets Bucky, blinking a little when he notices Bucky’s cooking. It’s not like he’s never seen Bucky cook; they used to trade off, before the war, but since coming back to life he’s been hesitant to mess with knives and the oven. Bucky hadn’t exactly been planning to bring up the letters, though he also hadn’t been planning to _not_ bring them up, but when he sees Steve he suddenly pictures him sitting with those slumped shoulders scrawling letters to a dead man and Bucky’s heart is clenching up so tight his breath comes in ragged.

“Buck?” Steve’s all earnest concern now and Bucky’s going to fly apart, that old familiar ache in his bones like when he’d see the sun making a halo out of Steve’s hair or when Steve laughed particularly hard at one of Bucky’s jokes. Bucky grabs fistfuls of Steve’s shirt and hauls him in close, wrapping him tight and breathing him in. Steve makes a startled noise but willingly winds his own arms around Bucky, one hand smoothing Bucky’s hair.

“Did something happen?” Steve asks. Bucky squeezes him one more time before pushing back a little, suddenly very aware of Steve’s hand lingering on his back. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the notebook.

“I found this,” Bucky tells him, flipping to the page that makes him a strange combination of fond and pained, the page where Steve confesses to not knowing why he’s there without Bucky, and Steve bites his lip after he scans the words.

“It’s true,” Steve says with a shrug. “I wasn’t doing so hot without you.” Bucky tips forward again to rest his head in the crook of Steve’s neck and Steve squirms a little when Bucky’s eyelashes tickle against his skin.

“I wasn’t doing so hot without you, either,” Bucky deadpans, and Steve huffs because he still can’t bring himself to joke about what happened to Bucky. He makes to move away and Bucky holds him firm. “Can I keep it?” He asks.

“Keep—the notebook? Did you already fill up the one I gave you?” Steve is being deliberately obtuse, Bucky is sure. They’ve always been tactile with one another, but a spontaneous bone-aching hug in the kitchen isn’t exactly par for the course.

“Lost all the other letters you wrote me,” Bucky reveals. “I just—it’s nice seeing it in writing.”

“That you eat all the ice cream?” Steve jokes, but he’s rubbing little circles on Bucky’s back and smiling softly.

“That you miss my ugly mug when it’s not around.”

Steve hums a little. “I don’t think any of those letters say a thing about your mug.”

“Punk.”

“Jerk.” Steve pulls away. “Can I go take a shower now?”

“I sure hope so.” Bucky makes a face, the moment sort of over because he’d shied away again from what he really wants, what he’s always wanted. “You smell like Billy Watson just threw you in the river.”

“Very funny.” Steve rolls his eyes. “If I say that’s what happened, are you going to go after him again?” He calls over his shoulder as he heads down the hall. Bucky laughs.

“No matter how many times it happens,” Bucky promises. “And don’t take forever! I’m slaving away like a kept woman and your dinner’s gonna taste awful if it sits too long.” Bucky can’t make out the words of Steve’s response, but he yells, “I heard that!” anyway because he knows Steve well enough to know it was a knock on his cooking.

He wakes up the next morning and there’s a paper next to his pillow. He has to squint a few times to read what Steve wrote, because it’s _morning_ and he’s _tired_ , but when he finally focuses he feels like he might be on fire.

_Here it is in writing. I missed that mug of yours while you were gone. I missed having you at my side and I missed your laugh and your bad jokes and the way we used to tussle around. I even miss the way you used to trip me just so you could catch me and tell me I owed you for saving my life. My debt there’s too big to ever be wiped out, I’d guess, but I’m okay with being in debt if it’s to you. Now that you’re here I finally feel like I’m home, Buck, and I’m sorry if that’s selfish because of what you had to live through to get here. We can still visit all the states, if you want, and we can finally see the Grand Canyon, or we can sit in this apartment and never leave the couch if that’s what you want. I already have everything I need to be happy._

Bucky’s not ashamed to admit he’s bawling like a kid when he finishes, and he flings himself out of bed to find Steve. He’s in the kitchen, and Bucky doesn’t even stop once he finds him—he barrels right into him, pins him against the kitchen counter and grabs that ridiculously strong jaw in his hands and plants one right on the kisser.

Steve sighs against his lips and lets his hands circle Bucky’s waist, pulling him in closer, and Bucky’s heart feels like it’s taking flight. One of Steve’s giant hands comes up and swipes at Bucky’s tears. They break apart, resting their foreheads together, and Bucky’s not sure if the little breaths coming out of him are laughs or sobs.

“Hell, if I’d known a love letter was all it took I would’ve written you one when we were twelve,” Steve murmurs, and now Bucky definitely laughs.

“Hope you’re not implying I’m fast, Steve Rogers.”

“Seventy years isn’t exactly fast,” Steve points out, grinning so wide it almost looks painful.

“Ah.” Bucky pretends to consider. “So, really, it wouldn’t be too uncouth if I took you to bed and had my way with you.”

Steve’s eyes go wide, his grin slipping as he licks his lips. “I think—no, not uncouth…I mean…” He stammers, and Bucky laughs at him.

“Guess your way with words only pertains to writing, huh?” Bucky smiles wide and takes Steve by the hand. “Let’s find a better use for your mouth.”


End file.
